Let Us Never Wake
by Amber Dawn
Summary: Touching him like this, tenderly, the caress of a lover...it feels so right. And yet, as if a brand against my skin, the rose presses against my chest. [Slash, AragornBoromir, AragornArwen. Oneshot.]


**Let Us Never Wake...**

**_Author: _**Jade Diamond 

**_Fandom: _**Lord of the Rings 

**_Category/Warnings: _**Slash, pointlessness, fluff. Beware, beware. 

**_Rating: _**PG-13 

**_Pairings: _**Aragorn/Boromir; hints of Aragorn/Arwen 

**_Summary/Notes: _***SLASH. Boromir finds a strange comfort in Lothlorien, in the arms of a prince...Aragorn's POV. Based on a combination of the movie and the book.* Some spoilers. Bewarned. That, and the fact that this was written during a caffine-induced haze at three in the morning add up to a lot of pointlessness, a touch of angst, and Aragorn's possessed hand. 

**_Disclaimer: _**I don't own Aragorn, Boromir, Arwen, the Ring, the Company, Lothlorien, Moria, Gandalf, the Balrog or anything else you may or may not recognise. That all belongs to a few others. I *do* own the naughty thoughts that kept drifting through my mind during the sweet scene in the movie, thus leading to this vinigette. I don't make any money off'n this, so quit trying to sue me. Hmph! 

  
  
  
He seeks my counsel, here, underneath the ever-beautiful nighttime sky. He shivers with fear, his soul broken by the fall of Gandalf. And yet, his eyes shine, full of a hope he dares not believe, as if believing will take it away from him, snatch the hope from his grasp. He does not yet fully trust me, for he has not realised why we must destroy the One Ring. I fear for him, knowing that of those left in the Company, his willpower is the weakest. His eyes shine with a primal desire every time the golden Ring glimmers, whether under Sunlight or Moonlight, or even by the light of a rare campfire. 

He speaks of the White City now, the White Tower of Ecthelion, and for the moment, I know he has allowed himself to hope. To lose himself in his narrative, his voice steady, yet a note of desperation in the tones. He turns to me, stray locks of soft, brown fringe falling into his face. The smallest ghost of a smile lights up his face, the corner of his mouth twitching just barely, his eyes shimmering with tears, with hope. We sit in silence a moment, my lips moving only slightly, trying to find the words to comfort him. 

The words do not come. Instead, as if possessed by something not of this world, my hand drifts towards him. It rises slowly, the fingers trembling, tender as it brushes the locks of hair from his face. He looks at me in surprise, though it is not an unpleasant surprise. The tips of my fingers brush his cheekbone, and a jolt of lightening shoots through my body. 

My mind screams at me, even as the blasted hand cups his cheek, the soft flesh melding with my palm. Conflicting emotions overtake my body, my every sensation. Touching him like this, tenderly, the caress of a lover...it feels so _right_. And yet, as if a brand against my skin, the rose presses against my chest. The metal is cool, though it feels as if it is burning a hole through me. I cannot move my hand from his cheek, and I watch, in fascinated horror, as my thumb brushes away a tear that has fallen. He is trembling now, the quakes ripping through his body as violently as the tremors the Balrog's footsteps in Moria caused. And though I know that I am betraying Arwen, betraying her love for me, her very _trust_, my hand will not move. I cannot make it, and I know, somewhere in my heart, that I truly do not _want_ to move it. 

My thumb moves from where it sits, resting just below his eye, to caress his lower lip. The gesture is tender, yet intimate, shaking me to my very core. He sighs under my touch, and I cannot seem to stop what happens next. 

I lean down slowly, painfully slowly, giving him this last chance to back away. To save himself, to save _my_self. He only sits there, his eyes large, shimmering, almost scared. 

"Do not worry," I whisper, the words disturbing the air about us, between us, no more than the beat of a moth's wing. "I will not hurt you." 

He smiles softly, his own hand lifting to touch mine. Fire races through me, setting every part of my skin ablaze. His hands are softer than I expected, much more delicate than a soldier's hands should be. 

"I worry not about that," he murmurs, and his breath is warm against my chin. "I worry that this is but a dream." 

I laugh softly, the first mirth that has come to me in a long, long while. I lean closer, and my nose is against his, our lips just a hair's breadth apart. 

"If this is but a dream," I begin, my voice pitched lower than I intended, "then let us never wake from it." 

Before he can reply, I have closed that short distance. His lips are firm, and yet, they give way to my gentle demand. I feel him, rather than hear him, moan against my mouth, and he presses closer. My lips part slightly, my tongue sliding out to greet his mouth. At once, he opens his mouth, a shy tongue moving out to greet mine. They dance there, for a brief moment, a tender maiden and a sensual warrior. And finally, he pulls back, though only the slightest bit. 

"Aye," he murmurs, his hand sliding around my neck. "Let us never wake." 

  
~End~ 


End file.
